This anger steeps and stews,
lives in cunt folds and bruises,
hears footsteps at nightfall,
feels blows before they land,
knows when to make itself small.
This anger
exhales, the last breath of wise women drowned;
buckles, wipes noses and bums, pours coffee, writes lists, and earns eighty four cents on the dollar.
This anger sputters, catching light in second glance bodies, enables resistance to those who preach what is and can be.
This anger burns blue and, with the ashes of heretics burnt for their truth, writes new stories from old ways.
Stardust Becoming 